Seriously, Norman!, page 7
He smiled and shook hands with the fidgeting and firking twins.
“And these,” he said, removing the large, scalelike objects, now recognizable, hanging about him, “are our lessons for the afternoon: kinetic classroom aids, otherwise known as kites. Once more we bring our heads and noses into the clouds. I will explain further over lunch. Mrs. Normann?”
“Oh yes, yes. Girls, pack up your dance whatnots and we’ll just . . .” But the others were already hurrying down the hall, Norman again muttering something about a firlot.
* * *
Over their plain (cheese), pepperoni, broccoli-spinach-and-onion, or eggplant pizza slices, Balthazar Birdsong questioned the girls about their classes.
“Anna, have you yet learned triple step in double time?”
“A little.”
“Very good.”
“Emma, how about you, can you triple step in double time?”
“I take ballet.”
“Ah, alors. Est-ce que tu peux faire le grand battement?”
“Oui, un peu.”
“Très bien.”
“What can you do, Mr. B.?” said Norman.
“Norman, manners!” said his mother.
“No, Norman is quite correct. Fair is fair. I enjoy very much a regular ardha baddha padma paschimottanasana.”
“Abba dabba abba dabba yabba dabba what?” said Emma.
“Ardha baddha padma paschimottanasana. I am a practitioner of the ancient system of postures called hatha yoga. I have just alluded to the noble forward bend in half-lotus posture.”
“Do you stand on your head?” asked Emma.
“Frequently, when appropriate. However, at this time, I prefer to point my head in another direction. With your permission, Mrs. Normann, I will accept your kind offer to drive us all to my preferred kite-flying venue, the Great Lawn of Central Park.”
go fly a kite
On the grassy expanse of the Great Lawn, Balthazar Birdsong was distributing the kites, keeping the large red-and-white box kite for himself.
“The origin of the sport of kite flying is lost in the mists of time,” he said, handing a kite to Anna. “Did it begin with the Egyptians? Some would say so. But not I, the noble Egyptians being too rooted to the earth in their great palaces and mausoleums. I believe it was more probably the Malays or Polynesians of the Pacific, people keenly attuned to the winds, winds that were sometimes mighty enough, after all, to blow away their towns.”
Norman karate-chopped toward his green kite.
“Handle your kite with care, Norman. Remember, undoubtedly this practice began as a religious observance.”
“It’s just a paper kite,” said Emma, “and it’s wrinkly.”
“My poor, cynical child.”
“How come you and Mr. Kreidewand have different names?” said Anna.
“Our mothers did not marry brothers. But enough hobnobbing. We are losing precious time. We have a clear eight knots of wind with half a dozen cumulus humilis clouds to keep us company. So please, observe.”
Mr. B. held his kite aloft gently with his right hand, his arm extended, his head high, and faced away from the wind. He now opened his index finger and thumb, allowing the kite to kick up. Then, with the string running over his right palm, he whirled his arm above his head several turns, allowing the string to spool out rapidly, as the kite, nodding, as if in farewell to its friends, quickly climbed into the blue. Before very long, they all were squinting to see the tiny spots of red and white standing in the firmament.
“Circa one thousand five hundred feet. A nice height, I think,” said Mr. B.
With the help of a stake pushed into the earth, Balthazar Birdsong secured the kite string.
“All right. Who’s next?”
One by one the three attempted to launch their kites.
“Running is not necessary,” cried Mr. B., cupping his mouth with his hands. He let them fall to his sides. “All right. Run if you must.”
Soon four kites soared and fluttered quietly, high, very high above the earth.
Balthazar helped Anna, Emma, and Norman stake their kites securely.
“Norman. I’ve an idea. Let’s send something up the string.”
“How about Alfred the Great?” said Norman.
“I am familiar with the personage. However, I can’t imagine that he is in your possession.”
Norman pulled the small plastic figure from his pocket.
“Ah,” said Mr. B., examining it. Now he attached a small sail with a fishing swivel to Norman’s kite line, then attached Alfred the Great to the sail.
“Hold on to him until I say go.” Norman held on. “All right, go!”
Alfred the Great rose smoothly and quickly up the line, finally reaching the kite itself, where he remained.
“I hope he’s not scared,” said Norman.
“Never!” said Balthazar B.
Mr. Birdsong stood with his head back, smiling broadly, his hands on his hips. “Marvelous,” he said.
“Marvelous,” said Emma. “What now?”
“What now?” said Balthazar Birdsong.
“Yeah, what now?” said Anna.
“We enjoy the afternoon!”
“But nothing’s happening,” said Anna and Emma together.
“Nothing’s happening! What do these schools teach nowadays? Everything’s happening! In fact, we are preparing for what will come next.”
“By staring into the sky at a bunch of kites?” said Emma.
“Not just a bunch of kites. A bunch of kites and a small plastic action figure.”
Anna and Emma crossed their arms. Even the normally chirpy Mrs. Normann pursed her lips and wrinkled her brow.
“Trust me, I’m a professional. An afternoon spent in the breeze upon the green grass beneath the tall trees is one of the very best learning methods known to humankind, a method which has been used successfully by human beings for thousands, possibly millions of years.”
The twins crossed their arms the other way.
Balthazar Birdsong continued: “Perhaps you have heard the expression ‘Go fly a kite’?”
Anna and Emma exchanged looks.
“I see you have. Yes, it is a favorite of my cousin’s. Very loosely translated, it means ‘Go think for yourselves.’”
* * *
Sometime later, if you happened to be strolling near the Great Lawn of Central Park, you might have seen four kites high in the blue sky; one girl halfway up an oak tree, singing, and another girl apparently tap-dancing on a tree stump; and a woman covered in pink, fuzzy balls, leaning back on her arms, with her face upturned to the sun; and a thin man in the middle of the lawn, standing on his head; and a boy with his back to a tree, a book in his lap.
Norman looked up from his dictionary for a moment and squinted at his kite. He looked down again and read:
gibberish n : confused, meaningless talk, utterance that is not understandable
gibbet n : a gallows, especially an upright post with a projecting arm for hanging the bodies of executed criminals as a warning
gibble-gabble n : senseless chatter
gibbon n : the smallest and most tree-loving ape, with very long arms and no tail
gibbosity n : a swelling or bump
gibbous adj : rounded, bulging
gibe vb : to taunt, to sneer
Norman looked at the sky and said, “Gibble-gabble.”
He closed his eyes. “Gibble-gabble. Gibble-gabble. Gibble-gabble.”
He opened his eyes and scrunched his mouth sideways a few times. “Ibbleg-abbleg. Ibbleg-abbleg. Ibbleg-abbleg.”
He went on. “Blegab-blegib. Blegab-blegib. Blegab-blegib.”
He went back to where he started. “Gibble-gabble. Gibble-gabble. Gibble-gabble.”
“What’s that, Norman?” asked Norma Normann.
“Nothing, Mom. Just gibble-gabble. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“All right, dear.”
Nevertheless, it had given Norman an idea.
He took out the piece of paper he had kept in his pocket ever since discovering it in his father’s study, now very crumpled and worn from all the unfolding and folding it had received over the past days, and smoothed it out on his knee. Once again he tried to read it.
“Now this is gibble-gabble, grade A,” said Norman.
Norman tapped his forehead absentmindedly and sat up with a jolt. “Wait a second! ADO ZENE GGS. That’s a dozen eggs!”
He jumped up, shouted “Hurrah,” and then sat down again. “A dozen eggs?” he said. “Why a dozen eggs?”
Norman worked through the rest of the puzzle. He looked down. He looked up. He looked down and he looked back up, all the while recording his guesses on the piece of paper.
“Okay, here it is. Message decoded by ace code cracker, Norman Normann.”
Norman nudged his mother, who had begun to doze. “Mom, I was wrong. It’s not gibble-gabble. It’s a grocery list.”
great ear to great ear
Norman sat at breakfast, looking dreamily at Alfred the Great, who was perched on the top of a cereal box. Occasionally, Norman took a spoonful of cereal, but he continued to be off in his own world, as we have often heard his mother say.
Norman said aloud, “A dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, a bottle of seltzer water, three oranges, and a can of mushroom soup. Why would someone send Dad a grocery list in code? Why would he even need a grocery list? He can’t even make toast.”
“Who can’t even make toast, dear?” said Mrs. Normann.
“Dad can’t even make toast.”
“Yes, dear, you’re right. But he can buy toast.”
“What a hero. I wish he would come home and stay home. I hardly ever see him.”
“Now, dear, don’t be snippy. You know Daddy works very hard for you and I.”
“You and me, Mom.”
“That’s what I said. Now, haven’t you got some lessons to finish for Mr. B.? You know we’re meeting him with Leonard and Mrs. Piquant for a super-duper special lesson at the Bananical Gardens.”
“You mean, botanical?”
“That must be it. I didn’t think ‘bananical’ could be right. Sometimes I can’t read my own handwriting. Finish your cereal, sweetheart, and let’s take a look at your lesson together. We’ll make it nice and cozy-wozy.”
Norman carefully moved his cereal bowl aside and slid a large piece of blue origami paper into its place. He picked up the paper and then folded it carefully, this way and that, as Mr. B. had shown them all how to do on the way home from their kite-flying session, and after a few minutes of concentrated effort, he held in his hand a small kite. To this, he attached very light sewing thread. Norman got up from the table and switched on the fan on the kitchen counter.
“Thank you, dear, it is a bit close today,” said Mrs. Normann.
Norman returned to his seat and attached the little blue kite to Alfred the Great, who still had the fishing swivel around his waist. He placed Alfred the Great onto a popsicle stick and taped his feet down.
“Now, Norman, stop playing with that little man and open your book.”
“Right, Mom.” Norman reached for his dictionary and paged through it until he came to the Hs.
“Good for you, Norman dear,” said his mother, absently paging through a home décor magazine. “Now read aloud to me.”
Norman read, “‘Hot, adjective, having a relatively high temperature.’”
“Everyone knows what ‘hot’ means, Norman. Today it’s hot, for instance. Find something more challenging.”
“Okay, Mom. How about this, ‘hot air, noun, talk without meaning.’”
“‘Hot air’ is not ‘talk without meaning,’ it’s what comes out of a hair dryer.”
“Whatever you say, Mom. ‘Hot brain, noun, hot head.’”
“Oh.”
“‘Hot buttered rum, noun, a hot drink made of rum and hot water mixed with spice and sugar and served with a lump of butter floating on top.’”
“There is no need for you to know anything about hot buttered rum, Norman.”
“Mr. B. just says I should read the dictionary, as much of it as I can.”
“Well, all right, but not hot buttered rum, that’s out.”
“‘Hotch, verb, to shake.’ ‘Hot dog, noun, from the resem-blance of frankfurters to dachshunds, a cooked frankfurter served on a bun and garnished with mustard, ketchup, onions, or sauerkraut.’”
“That’s fine.”
“‘Hotel, noun, a building of many rooms used for travelers on overnight stays, with several floors reached by elevator, usually with a variety of rooms for eating, drinking, dancing, fitness training, business needs, exhibitions, and group meetings (as for conventioneers), sometimes with a pool, hot tub, or spa, with shops opening into the lobby and onto the street and selling T-shirts, gifts, candy, newspapers and magazines, and other things of special interest to travelers or with personal services like hairdressing, shoe shining, massage therapy, and with telephone booths, though these are now somewhat rare, writing tables, and washrooms.’”
“Well!”
“‘Hoteldom, noun, hotels and hotel workers.’”
“‘Hoteldom,’ you mean, like ‘kingdom’?”
“I guess so, Mom. ‘Hoteldom.’”
“I think that’s a bunch of hot air,” said Norma Normann, getting into the spirit. She rose to refill her coffee mug.
“No answers in the dictionary today,” said Norman to himself.
“What’s that, dear?”
“I said, maybe Mr. B. will have some answers in the Bananical Gardens.”
“That’s right, dear.”
“In the meantime,” said Norman, under his breath, “it is time for Alfred the Great to try my new invention.”
Norman set Alfred the Great, with his popsicle stick, on the rim of the cereal bowl.
Alfred the Great tested the kite strings and checked to see that his feet were securely strapped to the board.
“Well, here’s how!” said Norman.
“For the Queen!” shouted Alfred the Great, and kicking himself off the edge of the great bowl, he yanked on his kite string, bringing the kite up and engaging the wind. The string snapped taut and the enormous kite shuddered, then pulled with tremendous power. Alfred the Great leaned back, allowing the force of the kite to pass through his waist, where he was tethered to it, down through his legs and into the board, which leaped up and began to slice through the milky liquid, the board squirting like a watermelon seed between two fingers.
“Eeeeeeyaaaaaa!” yelled Alfred the Great as the board rode through the waves, soaring over several large oblong shapes floating in the white sea. Indeed, with a little kick of his legs and a tug on the line, Alfred the G. found he could soar great distances before splashing down again, his silver locks streaming out behind him, his robes whipping and snapping.
This is like flying, rather exhilarating, thought Alfred.
But his robes were becoming a problem. They were getting wet and, royal velvet that they were, extremely heavy. Now the drag of the robes coupled with the fantastic pull of the kite were like two great locomotives going in opposite directions, trying to tear Alfred the G. in half. Suddenly, with a prodigious rip, the kite line tore from his waist, sending the kite pinwheeling wildly down as Alfred sent up a great rooster tail of milk as he careened into the side of the bowl.
“Norman!” shouted his mother. “Look at the mess you’ve made of your breakfast! Cereal and milk all over the table. Now stop playing and take a paper towel and wipe up this mess. And then get ready for Leonard and his mother. They’ll be here any minute. Really! I thought you had more sense.”
Alfred grinned from Great Ear to Great Ear.
jefferson oak
Norman, Leonard, Norma, and Mrs. Piquant entered the Botanical Garden through the great neoclassical gate, Norman and Leonard heeyahing and karate-chopping their way through the turnstiles.
“Norman, please, remember where you are.”
“Where are we? We’re outside!”
“Yes, but you are in a garden.”
“Haaaawooooo,” shouted Leonard. “Apparently, this must not be the Garden of Eden.”
“Why not, dear?” said Norma.
“Well, first of all, the Garden of Eden was a paradise, and if it was a paradise, you should be able to do what you want, even if it’s just goofing off.”
“Well, dear, I’m not sure if you could goof off in the Bible.”
“And another reason it’s not the Garden of Eden is that we’re all wearing clothes! Eeeyaaah!”
Norman and Leonard skipped and ran and hopped down the gravel path in a somewhat restrained way.
Norman said, “You know something I never understood about the Garden of Eden?”
“There’s a lot of things I don’t understand,” said Leonard.
“Who did Adam and Eve’s children marry to make the rest of us? You know, Cain and Abel. Did they marry their mom? Because if they married their mom, that’s gross.”
“That’s not only gross, I bet it’s against the law. In all fifty states!”
“Hiyaaaah! Do you know where we’re meeting Mr. B., by the way?” asked Norman.
“He told my mom to go to the Jefferson Oak and look up.”
If you have been to the Bronx Botanical Garden, then you know that after you enter through the great gate and have passed the buildings containing, on the one side, the palm collection and, on the other, the succulents, you walk along a pebbly path, coming quickly to a large, baroque, and filigreed fountain. From here out, the park spreads its wild acres, and to find the Jefferson Oak takes some careful planning and alert walking along the many crossing ways. Fortunately, Sarah Piquant knew the park well and strode onward purposefully, while the boys scampered in the grass where it was allowed and remained on the walkways where it was not, with Norma trotting along behind them, good-heartedly.
“Oh, this is beautiful, Sarah!” she said. “The leaves are all so freshly green.”
Indeed, the leaves were the green they achieved only during the last weeks of April and the first weeks of May, nicely framing Norma’s overall pinkness, as she breathed in their new-made aroma.
